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THOUGHT TRAVEL

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: THOUGHT TRAVEL

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THOUGHT TRAVEL

by John Yeo

The only time I ever get sunburnt from exposure to the sun is when I am actually exposed to the damaging rays of the sun.

The images just keep flooding in. My mind is overwhelmed with devastating images of poverty and suffering on the other side of the world. I have witnessed the victims of an earthquake, struggling to free themselves from buildings that have imploded and tumbled down, after the effects of huge shockwaves, as the earth moved and split apart. Wholesale death and destruction following a demonstration of the frailty of man.

I have lived through the effects of extreme hunger gnawing away at the consciousness and giving rise to pains racking the emaciated body of a child who is screaming for her Mother. The Mother who is lying dead beside her on the sun scorched earth. Hunger brought on by drought and a lack of rainfall to provide essential moisture for the crops.

Wars have unfolded before me, fought with a venomous fury. Where the bodies of the brave are heaped together; where the combatants have struggled in unequal combat. The victors revelling in the unequal struggle as their far superior weapons destroy all before them.

I have watched in horror as a river bursts its banks flooding the land with huge waves that destroy everything in their path. Leaving a huge death toll of people and wildlife in the wake. Flooding the land, filling valleys with the forceful power of water that over centuries can erode rock. Water that makes the tears of the survivors invisible as their tears add to the flood that destroys all.

I have followed a raging inferno as a tempestuous fire takes hold and rages through huge forests, the flames turning everything in their path to ash. Fire that leaves no survivors, turning all life in its path to dust. People and animals alike suffering an agonising death.

My senses then experienced the ultimate shock of a family sleeping through a nuclear explosion leaving this existence in a pile of ash. The burnt, scarred, contaminated, radioactive survivors and their future of eternal suffering.

The only time I ever get sunburnt from exposure to the sun is when I am actually exposed to the damaging rays of the sun.

 

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

 

HEART CONTROL

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: HEART CONTROL

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HEART CONTROL

by John Yeo

   He lay there dying, The bandits had left him for dead when they ransacked the wagon train, slaughtering everyone. We had been explorers, pioneers and settlers, peacefully penetrating this new land, he thought, dreamily semi conscious, drifting in and out of sleep.
    It was the deafening silence of the central interior of this vast deserted continent that got to him most. Mile after mile of sandy, fly-infested silence. The buzzing sounds of the wings of a multitude of flies, going about the business of survival, cannibalising and feasting on the detritus of millions of dead flies and other tiny creatures that had briefly lived and died here was the only sound that permeated the deathly silence. A cacophony of orchestrated wings, creating a symphony that quickly became drowned in the overwhelming background silence, Lost to the momentary awareness that consciousness allowed his limited human senses to suffer. Thrust into the background to be drowned in the interminable silence.
     He listened intently, there was another sound that seemed to be continually drumming in the background. A noise he was familiar with, a sound that was so close to him, he couldn’t pin it down.
The more he listened and tried to identify this alien but seemingly familiar sound, the louder it got. Always there, it resounded louder and louder to his annoyance, however hard he tried to ignore this persistent beat it soon became a crashing thump. The concentrated awareness of this beating sound began to play tricks on him.
What was it? This crashing beat that seemed so close to him that he was totally unable to resist paying attention to it.
    Sleep began to overtake him and dreamily he realised although the noisy beat was still banging away, the thumps were gradually getting softer, more irregular. Soon he could hardly hear them they sounded so weak and irregular.
Slowly a black cloud of unconscious sleep descended on his conscious mind and the beating thump was no more.

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

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DREAMTIME

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: FUTURE VETERAN

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DREAMTIME

by John Yeo

     Whenever I went to the village store on errands. Old Moses would always be there, sitting on his customary chair, delighting one and all with tales of the old days before the coming of the strangers from over the water. Tales of tribal practices and survival of the fittest in these vast, arid, dry lands. My all-time favourite stories would involve the running fights between his people and the heavily armed, over-laden, in-comers, as they traipsed through the bush, carving up the tribal lands into sections for themselves. Moses and his family were pushed further and further inland to take up residence in the harsh deserted hot dry interior of this huge land.

     The storekeeper, who was of mixed heritage, being the product of a union between a native woman and one of the incomers, would continually refill Moses’s glass with an endless supply of grog to encourage him and to loosen his tongue. Meanwhile the stores customers would sit in a circle on various upturned crates and other unconventional seating and listen avidly to tales of a wondrous life before the incomers arrived.

     Moses, tugged on his long matted hair and began to relay his latest tale. “One fateful day.” he began, “I was just a youth sitting around the bush campfire with the rest of my family, when there was a crashing and crunching of brush underfoot and a whole group of strangely attired newcomers appeared, brandishing some of their weaponry. Using sign language they roughly demanded food and water. The women of the tribe proceeded to fill some leaves with food and the strangers began to greedily eat the concoctions that were placed in front of them. Unknown to them we had eaten some bush tucker earlier and maggots were on the menu.
The strangers were directed towards the river bank to collect water from the river where they sat on a long log. I will never forget that day! The log came to life, and a huge alligator dragged one of them into the swamp, never to be seen again. They fired again and again into the water, emptying their weapons; we quickly overpowered the incomers then and left them by the river. I am old now, a veteran of many close shaves and wars. You and your children are the peaceful future of this wonderful land. Future veterans of your own lives and experiences.”

      “Moses have another cup of grog,” said the storekeeper bustling out of the door with a heap of supplies for some people in a truck that had pulled up.
Moses nodded his thanks and swallowed down the dregs of his first cup, handing his empty stained mug over to a young man, who helped around the store.

     “Moses,” I said interestedly, “You mentioned you were a veteran of your own experience and we are the future veterans. Where are the veterans of the past? “

     “Gone to the Dreamtime to be with many generations of once future, now long gone veterans.”

  I was forced to think about this.

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

LITTLE BOY BLUE

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: BLUE WITH ENVY

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Inspiration Monday: Blue with Envy

LITTLE BOY BLUE

by John Yeo

  Phillip and Jack were brothers, brought up in the privileged environs of the Surrey stockbroker belt, the brothers lacked for nothing. Father was a wheeler and dealer in the markets, Mother was a medical scientist employed by the local general hospital. Both boys attended nursery school together, then had private tutors right up to their years together at University.
    Yet, there were subtle, if not blatantly obvious differences between the two brothers. Stature was the obvious outward difference, Jack the elder of the two boys, was taller, more successful at attracting the girls, and seemed to be popular with all their school fellows. His passage through the hallowed halls of learning was cushioned and seemed easy all the way.
     Philip the younger sibling was always in trouble with someone, he had to fight his way through every situation that fate presented. Philip was six inches shorter than Jack, and aggressively aware of the obvious disadvantages that his stature seemed to confer on him. This sensitivity to his short stature was the trigger for some harsh retaliation to the many cruel jibes of his school fellows. Philip’s envy of his brother turned to an ingrained hatred that secretly burned with an eternal flame.

    Both boys became members of a rock group in university. Philip became known as Little Boy Blue and he played a horn, extremely well. Jack became the lead singer, known to all as Golden Boy.
   There was a memorable time when the brothers were together on a trip to India, the amazing lifestyles of the natives and the culture of Mother India, fascinated the two young men. Their Mother was descended from a large spread out family of high caste Indian people and they were overwhelmed with invitations to visit their many uncles and aunts spread out all over the subcontinent.
   Their Uncle Prahib was a mystic and his wife Sarita was a visionary who was very attuned to the auras that people exuded by their personality. The day arrived when the two brothers were introduced to the family.
Prahib was friendly and benevolent and welcomed them to their home.
     “You are so like your Mother Philip, and Jack you have inherited your Father’s looks and bearing!” 

     Sarita smiled, then suddenly went pale almost in shock. “You two are really brothers?” she questioned. “Your aura’s are so unlike each other. Jack; I see a golden cloud surrounding you. The path for you has been paved with golden opportunities and your future is enhanced by a rosy hue. Philip; I am frightened for you: You have a shocking blue aura that reflects your ingrained envious hatred!”
Philip blushed and ran from the room to the garden where he sat alone.
     Aunt Sarita and Uncle Prahib, were soon with him. Uncle Prahib, the mystic, said,
“Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn and stay with us here in Mother India.”

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

 

 

ARTISTIC DECAY

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: ARTISTIC DECAY

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ARTISTIC DECAY

by John Yeo

  We ran down the platform at top speed, the train had been sitting in the station for at least fifteen minutes.

  “C’mon Betty! Keep up, we mustn’t miss the train, I’ve been waiting so long to get this interview over with. Means a lot to both of us.” Joe said, literally tugging her along.

 “Alright Joe, I’m coming! Please don’t pull my sleeve like they. You will ruin my new coat, I bought it especially for this college interview. It will be great to go to the same Art college together.”

 “Wait, please wait!”  shouted Joe to the Guard who stood on the platform with a flag and his whistle, which he raised to his lips ready to set the train in motion. He smiled as the young couple dashed up and jumped into the nearest carriage.

  “Phew, that was close!” Joe went on, as Betty collapsed in the nearest seat to the door. The train soon pulled away from the station into the leafy countryside speeding through the rural beauty of England on the way from their hometown of Ware to the city of London.

It was then that they took notice of the other two passengers in the carriage, an elderly gentleman with a smartly dressed young lady, both were politely smiling, as Joe and Betty settled back into their seats.

 “Look at that wonderful view Joe,”  said Betty. “Beautiful farms and country houses set in acres of rolling countryside.

Joe grunted in reply, as he put his head down studying his iPhone intently.

The closer they got to the city, the more derelict and decrepit the buildings looked as the large blocks of flats and terraced houses with washing lines on the balconies, became views of factories and industrial units. The buildings were covered in graffiti; an amazing variety of shapes and patterns and pictures that seemed to accentuate the general state of urban decay.

Betty was shocked at this change of scene. “Joe, that’s disgraceful, look at that shocking rubbish and abandoned litter, piled around the buildings and the graffiti all over the walls!”

Joe looked up from his device and said, “Betty, I hate the rubbish and the piles of junk all over the place, but I think some of the graffiti is good and actually has the effect of brightening up the urban landscape.”

 Betty then replied, “Joe that graffiti is mostly rubbish and has no meaning, just block initials and hearts and zigzags.”

There was a polite cough as the elderly gentleman in the opposite corner of the carriage broke in. “I beg to differ, young lady, the graffiti is an example not only of urban decay it reveals the underlying artistic decay of the population. This is an example of youth expressing themselves in the nearest they can get to pure art.”

 Joe then looked closely at their traveling companion and gasped, “You are Sir Larry the television artist, who has made millions from art! We are off to college to be interviewed for our places.”

The young lady then smiled and said, “Sir Larry will be on the selection panel!”

Betty said, “I hope I haven’t put my foot in it by what I said.”

The gentleman smiled and said, “I am sure you will get a place, both of you, I am a prime example of Artistic Decay, I was a graffiti artist once a long time ago when I was young.”

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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THE POSTMAN ALWAYS COMES EARLY

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Stormy Paper man ~ (Image courtesy of Pixabay.com royalty-free images)

A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: Paper Storm:

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THE POSTMAN ALWAYS COMES EARLY

by John Yeo

  Mr. Blake, a mild-mannered clerk had worked for Power Bros. for 25 years, a dedicated regular employee, who had been extraordinarily loyal to the firm for a quarter of a century.

It was Monday morning in the Blake household, everything was in a turmoil after the weekend of peaceful pursuits that were important for keeping the balance of their minds in sync, with each other and the world around them.

Mrs. Blake got up and prepared the usual breakfast, as was customary, she took the tray into the dining room, together with the morning paper and the post. They always said how lucky they were having an early, reliable postal service.

   “Here you are, George! How did you sleep, darling? I found it so hot last night, I never got a wink, just tossing and turning.”

George grunted a response and examined the envelope that was on the tray.

   “Hmm! Looks like a letter from Head Office. That can wait until after breakfast, it’s probably just a circular; something that is going around all the branches. Those eggs and toast look wonderful, thanks, Beryl.”

 Beryl sat opposite and began to eat. “I must send some flowers to next door, Nicky comes out of hospital today with the new baby, just a little something to welcome her home.”

  “Of course darling, good idea! Jim and I were on the golf course together on Saturday. That is one proud Father! They are a lovely couple, we’re lucky to have good neighbours like that.”  responded George.

Beryl then bustled off to the kitchen with the dirty plates.

George idly picked up a letter opener that Beryl had thoughtfully placed on the tray and slit the letter open along the top.

As the realisation of the contents slowly seeped into George’s consciousness, he first went white with shock and horror, then his pallor changed to an angry red.

Dear Sir,

I regret to inform you that due to falling sales, your services are no longer required by, Power bros. May we take this opportunity to

thank you for your loyalty in the past and wish you every success in the future.

Yours sincerely,

G. Power

 

   “What’s up, darling? You look upset,” said Beryl who had just that minute re-entered the room.  

“It’s nothing Beryl, darling,” said George quickly stuffing the letter into his inside  pocket. “Where are my keys? I need something from the shed.”

 George ran every red light on the journey to work as he just got angrier and angrier with this cold-hearted treatment. To be summarily dismissed after 25 years without a reasonable explanation was inexcusable in his view.

 George stormed into the office waving the letter and in defiance of protocol, he entered the office of the managing director.

“I refuse to take this summarily paper dismissal lying down Mr. Power. George had an old  pistol in his pocket that he was about to pull out.

 Graham Power had known George for years and was both shocked and puzzled at this display of out of character behaviour.

  

 “What dismissal George? Give me that letter please,”

  George angrily thrust the paper over the desk and furiously waited for a response. He guiltily felt the gun bulging into his chest as Graham Power smiled and said,

  “Sorry old chap there has been a mistake, this letter was not meant for you. I will look into the matter. Meanwhile, go to your desk, it’s  a horrible mix-up. A paper storm in a teacup.”

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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ANXIETY HURRICANE

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: Anxiety Hurricane

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ANXIETY HURRICANE

by John Yeo

 Anthony was tired; not just sleepily tired, but a tiredness that had taken hold of his whole being. A weary lethargic state of mind that seemed to kill off any inclination to do anything.

Anthony, however, got a grip of this situation and forced life to go on. Every day he would carry out his regular routine; a routine that he loved in more ways than he cared to admit.

‘I will not get weighted down, by giving in to these horrific, demanding, feelings that are so painfully alien to me.’ Anthony thought.

  ‘For a start, there’s no way the reality of the future can ever be as black as I am imagining. I seem to have developed a habit of always looking at the worst outcome of any situation and painting the picture black: Pure jet black.’

  His mind drifted over the events that led to this obnoxious state of being. There was absolutely nothing in his life that could possibly have engendered this typhoon of negativity.

  ‘There are several minor issues that had been around for a long time. None connected to this searingly shocking hurricane of events, however.’

At this point, Anthony began to take his own steps to shelter himself from the onslaught of worrying events. ‘I have an idea that if I don’t walk on any cracks in the pavement, just the smooth surfaces, life will become smooth once again.’  From that moment forward he would avoid pavement cracks at all costs.

   Still, the worrying tempest of uncertainty continued, certain foods became very dangerous to consume, Anthony was afraid his weight would suddenly increase and he would balloon out, gaining much weight suddenly. A dietary ritual developed where certain foods would be avoided at all costs, eventually, he consumed very little food and became painfully thin. Anthony joined the local gym and another ritual developed, life would be seriously upset and dramatically affected if he ever missed a single session. He would attend the gym at exactly the same time every day where he would anxiously follow his strict routine in accordance with the wildly influential anxiety hurricane that had got increasingly violent as time went on. Many worldwide worrying events were adding to his anxiety and he began to be seriously concerned about world events and the dangers of life in general.

  ‘I will not read the papers anymore or switch the news on in any way, shape, or form, that way I will able to control this shocking tide of woeful anxiety.’ Anthony thought.

He was advised to try meditation and eventually a learned monk using hypnosis entranced him then using the power of suggestion abated the anxiety storm that had continually battered him for months.

   Anthony described the moment when he came into the suggested reality as a dense, dark, black, blanket lifted from his life instantly. From that day the sun shone warmly through Anthony’s future life.

(485 WORDS)

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

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SPACE MIRAGE

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: Dust Moat

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Image  Copyright John and Margaret

SPACE MIRAGE

by John Yeo

 The castle looked fantastic. We had arrived in orbit around  a mysterious red planet. A massive fortress loomed up as we arrived and our spacecraft began to orbit around the planet. A construction that seemed so mysteriously huge it was visible from space.
   “Wow!” ejaculated Palmer, the officer in control of the outer cameras.  “What’s that? It seems to be shining like gold in the path of the light reflected from the twin Suns orbiting the planet.”
   “I’m not sure but I think that is actually gold, or it could be a brand new material unknown to our science. We better get down there and take a look. Prepare to land. Take your places  everyone in the landing party.” said the Captain.
    “OK, Captain”  shouted  Palmer, “Remote surface readings, indicate an atmosphere that is identical to Earth’s. There is a solid surface, one mile away from the castle. The area around the castle, however, is reading as unstable, almost like a quicksand in the desert. I can only describe this as a dust moat. There is no indication of life anywhere at this time.”
   “stand-by team! We are going down. Follow my instructions to the letter, we must be on our guard against all eventualities.”


  The desert Suns were competing with each other to scorch the surface of the planet, as the spacecraft set down as close to the castle as possible.
 Gold was the card that drew the travellers to this scorching, parched, planet. A solid gold castle that promised astounding riches.
After the travellers had left the spacecraft, they found themselves trekking through the desert towards the castle. A castle that seemed not to be getting any closer but seemed to be exactly the same distance away.
  A strong whirlwind began to swirl the surface dust of the planet, covering everything and everyone. Visibility became poor, then impossible, the team quickly erected pods to shield them from the swirling, whirling maelstrom of dust.
Some time later when the storm had abated, the team emerged from their shelters to an astounding discovery. The castle had completely disappeared, the Captain immediately ordered the mission to be aborted with a rapid return to the ship.

   As the spacecraft took off and entered an orbit around the planet, the officer on the watch gasped as the gold castle was clearly visible on the planet once again.
   “Captian! Look a bridge has appeared across the dry moat, do you think this is a sign of welcome!” exclaimed officer Mcquirter.
  The Captain was dismissive and ordered the spacecraft to continue into space.
    “We will record this as alien science; an astonishing planet, I am not prepared to risk our lives by landing again. We narrowly escaped a strange fate, a dusty quicksand moat can suck the unwary into a painful death. Onward team!

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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EMERGENCY NICKNAME

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday Emergency Nickname

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Image courtesy of Gressenhall Farm and Workhouse

EMERGENCY NICKNAME

by John Yeo

  “Meet Foundling,” said the man commonly called the Beadle, “Foundling has been in this institution for 20 years now, she knows no other life but this, a move would probably destroy her completely.”
I shook hands with a tall young woman, her hair was brushed but hung lank down to her shoulders. Dressed in the plain issue clothes of the Workhouse, her obvious charming beauty, shone through.

“Hello Foundling, you have an unusual name, I have never heard anyone answer to a name like that. How did you come by it?”

“I don’t know Sir, I have always had that name, I have never been called anything else.” At this moment the Beadle broke in and explained.

“Foundling was abandoned on the doorstep of the Workhouse, as a baby, we took her in and as is usually the case, we gave her an emergency nickname. We did try to get her officially named, but she refuses to answer to anything other than Foundling. It is not our policy to force our residents into anything they are not happy about so she has been christened Foundling Smith.”

“What an incredible story!” I gasped, turning to Foundling, I said, “Are you sure you are happy about this unusual name? It could label you for the rest of your life when you get away from here.”

“Yes Sir, it’s OK, I have no intention of going anywhere,” Foundling said.

I turned to the Beadle and said, “You will have to break the news to the residents that I am here to close this establishment down. The government has decided that Workhouses have outlived their usefulness.”

The Beadle shrugged his shoulders resignedly and nodded. “The results of this drastic action will be in the hands of God.” He said sullenly.
It was then I realised how the effect of the closure would resonate throughout the whole establishment. The Beadle would also feel the effects.

Over the next few years, the old Victorian Workhouses were closed in England.
I was enjoying a happy retirement in Dorset, when I was intrigued to read in the Daily Times an announcement of the marriage of a Miss Foundling Smith, to the Earl of Richester.
That unusual name brought the memories flooding back. I have often wondered what became of the Beadle. I have a sneaking suspicion he was more institutionalised than any of the inmates.

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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THOUGHT TRAIN

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A prompt response for ~Inspiration Monday: Thought Train

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Three Sisters

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TRAIN OF THOUGHT

Insomnia.

Catacombs of Norwich.

Maria, Mona, and Mary. Three sisters.

People of the night.

Security guards.

The Mall.

Bloody trail of clues.

Dead body in a doorway.

Midnight Insomnia.

Norwich Chalk Mine Tunnels.

Maria, Mona, and Mary. Three sisters bathed in blood.

THOUGHT TRAIN

by John Yeo

 The night hours dragged by as I tossed and turned, desperately trying to get to sleep. I pictured myself seeking inscriptions on the headstones located on ancient tombs in the catacombs of Norwich.

I wake my wife. “What’s the time?  Look it’s 3am.” She angrily answers her own question. “Please go to sleep, darling, or at least let me sleep.”

“Sorry I say, I’m trying, but these three sisters are haunting me, Maria, Mona, and Mary. I see them growing up together, I see them getting married, having children and each becoming a Matriarchal head of their families. A proud dynasty that is interwoven with love and tragedy combined.”

 “OK then, I’ll make us a cup of Camomile tea, while you tell me what’s keeping you awake.”  My wife says resignedly heading for the kettle.

  “Well there is one child from each of the three families, three boys who go astray, they become involved with the people of the night, criminals, addicts, gamblers, and drunken revellers. I see a fight, a death with security guards from a nearby shopping mall following a bloody trail and discovering a dead body in a shop doorway attached to the rear of the mall.”

My wife interjects. “Why is that keeping you and me awake at this ungodly hour of the morning? Drink your tea, before it gets cold!”

“I haven’t finished yet darling! These three boys were not the killers, yet they run and take refuge in the Norwich Chalk Mine Tunnels. There is a notorious coven in operation here operated by a magical sect, headed by three mysterious sisters, Maria, Mona, and Mary, bathed in the blood of the afterbirth of their three wayward sons.”

 

Norwich Chalk Mine tunnels

‘Norwich Chalk Mine Tunnels’ ~ Image from the net

 

“Welcome, we have been expecting you, the train of thought has come full circle and rebirth awaits at the next station along the line.”

My wife is fast asleep as I begin to put my train of thought on paper. A thought train or a dream?

Copyright © Written by john Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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